


Me and My Shadow

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Protective Dutch, Protective Hosea Matthews, Whumptober 2020, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: He had promised to be back before the day’s end, in exchange for a few hours of free reign. A promise that he was no longer able to keep. A small twinge of fear beading inside of him, hoping that Dutch wouldn’t be too angry with him. It was his own fault, he knew, so absorbed in his surroundings that he hadn’t been paying attention as time quickly slipped by.Young Arthur gets lost while exploring.Whumptober 2020Prompt#12 I Think I've Broken Something 'Broken Bones'Prompt #18 Panic! At The Disco 'Panic Attacks'Prompt #26 If You Thought The Head Trauma Was Bad 'Concussion'Prompt #28 Such Wow. Many Normal. Very oops 'Accident'
Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 20
Kudos: 70
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

He had lost track of time.

How, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. One moment the sun had been blazing overhead, leaving him to seek out shelter beneath the trees as he meandered, only to suddenly realize the light was quickly disappearing. Before he knew it, a faint gray had taken over the sky before slowly delving into a dark cerulean blue. He was miles from camp. The realization hitting sharp and fast, a curse falling from his lips as he turned his horse around.

“ _We got work in the morning, I need you sharp.”_

He remembered rolling his eyes, scoffing at Dutch’s insistence to be back before nightfall. The man worried far too much. They had spent the morning traveling, and were far from any sort of civilization, certainly the furthest Arthur had ever been at least. He had grown up on the outskirts of some pitiful livestock town, never once venturing beyond its borders, the landscape a mystery he could only dream about. And now that he was actually here, actually somewhere new, the allurement of exploration had been too great to ignore.

So he had _promised_ to be back before the day’s end, in exchange for a few hours of free reign. A promise that he was no longer able to keep. A small twinge of fear beading inside of him, hoping that Dutch wouldn’t be too angry with him. It was his own fault, he knew, so absorbed in his surroundings that he hadn’t been paying attention as time quickly slipped by. Instead he had been bent on devouring the landscape, a mess of a journal in his hands as he scratched and scrawled every sight he saw. Noting every animal, every oddity whether it be a strangely formed tree or misshapen rock for him to reflect on later.

He had stopped once, at a small creek in a ravine to water his horse, before moving up the hillside, continuing his journey east. The woods towering above him, the ground blanketed in layers of thick moss and dense undergrowth, his mare stumbling along a poorly picked path. He should have turned back then, he knew, the warning faint and unheard. But he had wanted to keep going. Had told himself that he’d turn back as soon as he got to the top of the _next_ hill. As soon as he took a closer look at _that_ funny tree. As soon as he figured out what animal made _those_ tracks.

And now?

Now he didn’t know where he was.

That fear was starting to harden inside of him as he hurried his horse along. He had done his best to retrace his steps, squinting at his journal in the fading light, trying to discern which way to go. He had followed the faint whispers of light back towards the west, knowing that camp was in that vague direction. But as night took over, his sense of direction was completely lost, and _everything_ looked different.

And if he was being honest, the woods were terrifying at night.

Gone was the tranquility of the day; no longer were the skies filled with jubilant tunes of sparrows and jays. Instead, haunting omens split the night that sent shivers down his spine. Sounds he had _never_ even heard before spooked him, mournful howls and screeches echoing freely in the open air, surrounding him. Drowning him in fear, his anxiety mounting. That same anxiety dripping down onto the mare beneath him, the horse feeding off his terror and prancing uneasily at every scattered leaf or breath of wind.

Until suddenly she bolted.

It was the snapping of a twig that made them both flinch. Her muscles quivered as she raced, the sudden jolt sending him spiraling backwards, tumbling off her rump and onto the ground below. The impact leaving him to grunt, scrambling sloppily to his feet, watching as her form disappeared into the trees. The faint glimmer of her speckled white flank consumed by the night.

He was alone.

The fear gripping at his throat. Threatening to choke him. His voice, far too thin to even be heard thundering in his ears.

“Wait...no, come back!”

His heart hammering, a shiver racing through his core. Shakily he brought his fingers to his mouth, letting out a whistle in just the way he had been taught. Hoping she would hear, hoping she _would_ come back. He stood, frozen to that one spot, hearing each and every minute sound. The scampering of feet, branches creaking above his head, the rustling of bushes nearby. Another, inhuman screech split the night, stealing his breath. Dread slowly pooling inside of him. Quivering he reached up, hands pressed against his ears, trying to block out the nightmarish sounds. Fingers playing against his hair, startling just then.

His hat.

_Where_ was his hat?!

He spun around in a circle, panting, breaths far too fast, despair clutching at the fringes of his sanity. It couldn’t be gone, it just couldn’t be-

_There!_

It was right there!

He had nearly stepped on it, his foot clumsily kicking it, watching as it tumbled in the dark. Quick as a rattler he jumped after it, snatching it and thrusting it back on his head, the tiniest bit of relief coursing through him. Suddenly he felt weak, his arms, his legs, his _entire_ body far heavier than he remembered. His limbs uncoordinated and shaking as he stumbled, grabbing at a tree before he fell completely.

_Get it together._

Arthur cursed himself inwardly. He drew in another breath, forced himself to calm down. Ears straining still, flinching at every sound. Another whistle split the night, his breath held, hoping, _praying_ his horse would come. Bella was a young thing though. He had still been learning how to handle her. Dutch and Hosea both adamant he learn how, saying it was important.

He had been trying.

Now he wished he had put more effort into it. Suddenly, ahead in the distance came a crashing, the crunching of brush, branches snapping beneath weight. His eyes wide, scanning through the darkness, breath stuck in his throat once more as the dread raced through him. The sound drawing closer.

Whatever _that_ was, it was _not_ his horse.

He bolted.

A flurry of speed he didn’t even know he possessed. An awkward display, stumbling and tripping, hands bracing each and every impact of the uneven ground. A sharp sting of pain racing through his knee on one particularly bad fall. Limping now, but still moving. Every breath thundering in his ears, his chest burning. He risked a glance behind him, eyes seeing every shadow, every movement a new monster emerging from its depths. Startling him all the more.

Then he was falling.

The ground beneath him gone. For a terrifying moment it felt like the entire world had frozen. There was just him. Suspended in the air. His stomach dropping just then as realized that he was plummeting, upside down. Head over heels.

His back hitting first, stealing his breath. The impact jolting him forwards, brief glimpses of the rocks as he continued to fall. Arms flung out, desperate to grab, desperate to hold. A gut wrenching snap sounding in his ears, a sharp pain racing through his arm.

Tumbling sideways now.

He felt the rocks tear into his side. His breaths coming out in muted gasps. Dizziness taking over as he found himself rolling, rather than falling. Suddenly he hit something hard, found himself falling through the air once more.

He didn’t remember hitting ground.

Didn’t remember blacking out.

But it must have happened.

He blinked dully, eyes opening groggily. Tracing the night sky that was above, a brilliant display of stars. A constant drone of crickets filling his ears. A strange ringing, like a bell...his ears were ringing. And he was wet...the realization dim. His senses slowly coming back to him. Realizing just then he must be in the ravine he had found earlier. On his back, halfway in the small creek, the water lapping over him. The chill seeping into his bones.

With a groan he moved. Forcing himself up. A cry escaping him at the pain that raced through his arm. The limb heavy and awkward, unwilling to move how he wanted it to. Carefully he cradled it against his chest, holding it with his other, his breaths short and stunted.

He was shivering.

And his head hurt something awful.

_Everything_ hurt, if he was being honest. And he still had no idea where he was.

Dutch was going to be pissed.

“ _Tomorrow is a big day, Arthur. I have plans, and I will not see them fail because you spent the entirety of the night messing around. It’s best if you stay here.”_

“ _I ain’t gonna be gone long, Dutch.”_

He remembered that conversation. Remembered it distinctively. How Dutch and Hosea had been making plans for a while, how they had wanted to get an early start. How he had _promised_ to not be gone long. And now...now he was out well past the time he said he would be, and his arm...he couldn’t move his arm. The mere thought paralyzing him.

He sat, frozen, huddled there beside the creek. The tears brimming in his eyes but refusing to fall. His thoughts, racing, knowing he was in serious trouble. What was Dutch going to say, when he saw him like this?

What would he do?

Dutch was counting on him. Dutch and Hosea both. Their talks about this upcoming job had spanned for _weeks_ , the details intricate, laid out perfectly. Arthur had fallen asleep in front of the fire listening to them drone on more than enough times to know it was a big one. He couldn’t afford to be hurt. _They_ couldn’t afford for him to be hurt...

“ _It’s your own damn fault, figure it out.”_

Not Dutch that time.

Those words didn’t belong to him, but they were still very real. His father never had patience for him. Especially the day he had come crawling back after a failed endeavor, his face battered and bruised, coated in blood. He remembered the pain, white hot and burning, eyes so swollen he could barely see, crying, clinging to his pa, begging for help.

Only for the man to thrust him off. Gave him a kick for good measure, as though he were a mangy dog. Cursing him out for being a fool, saying it was well deserved. Then he had disappeared back into the dilapidated shack, guzzling down the rest of beer in his hand. Arthur had been left alone to clean himself back up, his broken nose leaving him in misery for days to come.

His father had been none to pleased. The beatings worse those next several days when he had been too miserable to try and go collect money or food. Deranged words falling from the mans lips as he left him a battered and broken mess, cursing him as fool.

“ _Now I’m going to have to go take care of things, so that we don’t starve, you miserable wretch.”_

That was the last thing his pa had said to him. The man storming off into town. He hadn’t come back that night, Arthur sheltered under a threadbare blanket in front of an empty fire pit, waiting. He hadn’t come back that morning. Or the following night. On the third morning, starving and still wrapped in pain, he had finally stumbled out of that dark pit and into town.

Only in time to watch his pa hang.

That dark day an even darker memory hanging in his mind. He held no love for his pa, the man vile and disgusting and hated more than words could ever say, but that event had changed his life, perhaps for the worst. The following years spent scraping by. Spent just surviving. People knowing full well who he was and having no sympathy for his plight. Ignoring him. He spent each and every day cursing himself, wondering faintly why he hadn’t just listened to the man, and gone out himself.

His pa would still be alive if he had. The man had only been caught due to Arthur’s indolence. His reluctance to push past his misery and be useful. He _should_ have listened. To his pa. To Dutch.

Why hadn’t he listened to Dutch?

Even if he could find his way back to camp now, he doubted he’d be welcomed. To come limping in like this, much like he had all those years ago with his pa? He’d be lucky if a beating was the only thing he got.

No...he’d most likely get a bullet to the head.

He swallowed. The thought dark, dismal, hanging over his head like a storm cloud. He didn’t think it possible. But he knew it was. Knew it because he’d seen Dutch do it more than once. Had glimpsed the ire the man could hold. A man who tolerated no nonsense. Those foolish enough to anger or cross him, met their fate at the end of a barrel.

“ _We shoot those who need shooting, Arthur.”_

Dutch’s explanation one time he had gathered the courage to ask.

“ _Way I see it, it’s either them or us.”_

Now it would be him.

To have gone this far only to mess it up now. All their hard work for nothing. The man would never forgive him. He would look at him, much like his pa had, and turn away, disgusted. He’d be left standing at the fringes of camp, doused in dread and coated in pain and Dutch, if the man didn’t outright shoot him, would no doubt send him away.

That thought hurt worse.

A new fear creeping in.

If he didn’t have a reason to be there, if he wasn’t of any use to them, then they wouldn’t have a reason to keep him around. They’d leave him here, with nothing, the disappointed scowl on their face as they turned away. He had earned his place by their side with skill alone, a timely pit pocket they had spied; extending him an offer that had changed his world.

And now? Now all of that was gone. He was no use to them injured as he was. He would be on his own again.

He couldn’t stop himself. The tears falling now, streaking down his face. He didn’t even bother wiping them away, his sobs lost in the symphony of crickets, the fear playing on his nerves. The reality slowly sinking in, the panic making things all that much worse. And in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered, repetitively, the same phrase over and over again.

At least this time, he was alone in his misery.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, he had been annoyed.

The day had been drawing to a close by the time they made camp, and still Arthur had been insistent on heading out. Dutch had let him go, grudgingly, holding to the boy's promise that he'd be back before nightfall. That annoyance blooming into something stronger as the light faded and darkness had taken over, leaving no sign of him.

He had given it an hour, maybe two, before venturing out. His voice echoing emptily around him, lost in cacophony of the night. It hadn't taken him long to find his mare wandering aimlessly. The absence of her rider had tampered that anger, turning it into concern. The lack of response to his hollers only served to heighten that worry, and Dutch found himself returning to camp empty handed.

Another hour spent talking with Hosea calmed his nerves and rekindled his frustration. Fully convinced now that Arthur had left his horse unattended and was now wandering absentmindedly in the middle of nowhere. The foolish boy; he should have just stayed when it was asked of him. It would have saved him all this trouble.

Had he stayed, then Dutch wouldn't be out here now, the cold biting at his fingertips, the weariness dragging him down. The vexation at having to delay their carefully thought out plans resting somewhere in the back of his mind. Because by now they would have packed up camp, would have been out on the road, making their way west. Instead he was here, the tattered journal in his hands, a frown marring his features as he studied the hastily sketched pages in the early morning light. A vague attempt to find out which way Arthur had gone. Each call unanswered, each step only heightening his irritation.

He was going to lay into that boy.

The lecture was sitting heavily in his mind, every word practiced and ready to be unleashed as soon as he caught sight of him. Dutch had been nothing but tolerant of his youthful temper and mood swings since Arthur had joined them a few months prior, but outright disobedience? That was one thing he couldn't condone. Arthur _was_ going to learn to listen. They were not going to let weeks of planning simply slip by because Arthur could not be bothered. Those thoughts firmly seated in his mind as he reached the crest of the ravine.

At least the boy could draw. Dutch could appreciate that small fortune, a slight admiration as he marveled at the work. Arthur could barely spell his own name, but he had a talent for capturing the visual aspect of the world. The likeness uncanny enough for Dutch to recognize the path Arthur had taken. That and the fact the boy had sketched nearly every step of his journey gave him an easy route to follow. He, without a doubt, had crossed this ravine. Dutch's voice split the air again, his echo unanswered as his eyes traced the area, hoping for any sign.

Grudgingly he nudged his horse on, slowly picking his way down towards the bottom. Pausing there a moment to let his horse drink, numb fingers leafing through the pages. He'd continue up this ridge and take a closer look once he made it back to the top. See if could recognize the line of trees that had been jotted down on the paper.

He almost missed it. The sound muffled, but unmistakable, a soft shuddering cry. Pulling his attention away from the journal held in his hands, eyes tracing the landscape around him. To his left where the quiet whimper had come. Only the top of his boots were visible, sticking out from underneath an outcropping. The sight bewildering almost, a surge of relief racing through him, hardening back into that anger. Why hadn't the boy answered him?

“Arthur?! What in the hell?” The words harsher than what he intended.

Dutch made quick work in dismounting, an irate sigh on his lips as he made his way over that outcropping. His steps slowing as those boots moved, scrambling backwards and out of sight, the scattering of rocks heard, stones rolling out from the sudden movement. The confusion in him mounting as he knelt nearby. One hand braced on the rock above to steady himself, peering into the depths of that hole.

Only to meet Arthur's frightened gaze. The boy watching him with wide eyes, his mouth agape, pressed into the depths as he could go. Tense and rigid, and utterly terrified. The sight so pitiful that he felt something small shift inside of him, that irritation fading, concern taking over. His voice fell into a gentle tone just then.

“It's alright, son-it-it's just me.”

He hadn't stopped to reflect on Arthur must be thinking, on what he must be feeling. He had been so convinced this whole ordeal had happened due the boy's obstinance that he hadn't considered the possibility of it being anything else. Because Dutch hadn't seen anything but pertinacity from him. The boy's unruliness so evident that it had quickly become a joke between the three of them. And now...the look on his face...

“I'm sorry,” came the breathy reply. It seemed to make things worse.

The words were choked out between a stunted sob. His voice unlike anything he had heard out of the youth before. It tore at his heart, his throat tight and Dutch suddenly found himself at a loss for words. Found himself instead taking in the boy's appearance, noting all the minute details. The worry growing.

Because he could see the blood. Dried flecks coating his temple, the haze that had settled in his eyes, the faint blue tinge of his lips. He was shivering, curled up on himself, arms crossing in front of his chest, his legs drawn up close. Attempting to make himself as small as possible. Shit. What had happened?

“You-you're going to be just fine,” Dutch finally found his voice, forcing the words to come. He went down to one knee, reaching a hand in, meaning to help him up. Knew that the boy needed looking after. But he paused, watching as Arthur flinched at his outstretched hand, the boy curling up on himself even more. Bracing himself, as though he was expecting...Dutch felt his heart drop a little.

“I'm not going to hurt you, son.”

He had never once raised his hand to him. Nor had Hosea; words alone had been enough to wrest control of him when he got out of hand, but even if it weren’t….Dutch swallowed, his thoughts racing as he watched him. His frame still stiff and rigid, still pressed firm against the earthen wall behind him as though he might disappear if pressed hard enough. There was a hitch in his breaths, the shiver easy to see. A look of uncertainty on his face, disbelief etching his small features. Dutch pulled back, arm resting easily on one knee as he watched him.

He wasn’t sure what to do.

He couldn't fit in there. The gap too small for a man of his size, though perfect, almost, for Arthur's lithe frame. While the boy _had_ put on weight since joining them, he was still small enough to almost disappear within that gap. And it seemed as though he meant to stay, unwilling to come out even with Dutch’s coaxing. Instead he trembled like a newly born fawn, wrapped up in himself and absolutely reeking of fear.

What the hell was he so afraid of?

“Arthur...” he breathed, trying to find the words, trying to reassure him. But the mere mention of his name served to do nothing but heighten they boy's fear. A sob breaking free, head pressed against his knees as his shoulders heaved, broken by gasps as he desperately tried to stifle the sounds.

It terrified him. Words coming faster now, not as certain. More like a plead.

“Arthur it's-easy there, you're alright-”

The words fell on deaf ears. Drowned out by his cries.

The choking gasping sounds tore at his nerves, and Dutch felt his stomach drop, his chest growing tight. He found himself unable to move, rooted to the spot, watching as he cried; sounds he never expected to hear were wrenched freely from the boy's throat. His breaths coming far too fast, interrupted by the guttural cries, leaving him wheezing. He was on the verge of spiraling, the thought shooting fear through Dutch.

“Come here, son,” he shifted, reaching out again. Stopping at the flinch, more violent this time. Drawing back, the frustration mounting. He had to calm him down. He had to do...something. Anything. More words this time, louder, an attempt to break through to him. Unable to reach out, unable to comfort. Only able to watch. Only able to talk. Arthur shaking his head, the words broken and scattered as he cried.

“Don't-I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't mean it.”

“Didn't mean what?”

He latched onto those words. The first thing he had said since being found. Dutch trying to keep the conversation going. Hoping to calm him down. Hoping to somehow reach the boy, to tamper his fear. His fingers itching, digging into the fabric of his pants to still the urge to reach back out. Because whatever terror gripped Arthur held him firm, and his advances were proving to only make things worse.

“Got lost,” he breathed, “I t-tried to to g-get back and I-” a pause as he drew in a sharp breath, the words stuttering out fast and unpredictable. “F-fell down and-I-I'm sorry, please d-don't-”

Dutch was trying to process what had been said. Though it didn't take a lot to conclude what had happened, noting the scrapes and bruising on his flesh, the pieced together story. Seemed as though he had taken a tumble down the ridge, and if he was being honest, if all Arthur had was a few cuts, then he was lucky.

“Alright, it's-Jesus just--just-take a breath for me,” Dutch pressed, the worry growing as the boy's breaths sped up, hiccups breaking through his stunted gasps. He was trying though, a fist pressed against his mouth as though to stifle the cries. A ragged breath drawn in sharply, cutting through the air. It was a small step, but a good one, nonetheless.

“Good,” he encouraged, nodding towards him as the youth drew in yet another stuttered gasp. “Just like that-just breathe-you’re going to be just fine.”

In and out. Each breath slower than the last, Dutch watching, waiting for him to calm. There were still tears in his eyes, tracks that ran down his face, and the boy was still pressed tight against the wall, but at least he was breathing. At least he was calmer. Even Dutch found his heart slowing, no longer racing away with his thoughts.

Getting him calm, though, was only one of the worries. Getting him out of there was the next. Small as it was, there was no way Dutch was going to get in there. No...he'd have to convince the boy to come out to him. His voice as soft as he could make it, encouraging.

“Come on this way, now; let's get you taken care of.”

There was a subtle shake of his head, his eyes downcast, refusing to look his way. His arms were still wrapped tight about his frame, but at least the terror that had seized him seemed to calm. Dutch let out a sigh, shifting his weight, trying to get more comfortable. He had a feeling they might be here a while. The thought sitting ill with him. Hosea must be out of his mind with worry by now. A small part of him was tempted to ride back to camp and fetch the older man. He always seemed to connect better with the kid.

But no...Dutch didn’t dare leave him. Frightened as Arthur was, he wouldn’t put it past the boy to bolt the moment he was gone. Then they would be in real trouble. So he sat, taking residence just outside the entrance, watching. Listening. The tension easing in the boy’s shoulders, the broken cries easing into quiet sniffles. A hand reached hastily to dry his face.

The sun broke over the top of the trees, chasing away the shadows. Warming the land. The chill slowly easing from his skin. And still he sat, eyes drifting carefully in towards where Arthur sat, the boy still pressed against the wall. But the tension had eased, his shoulders drooping now, and he was no longer crying. That, he knew, was a small success. He cleared his voice, breaking the silence that hung between them.

“You uh-you doing better now?”

There wasn’t a response. Not a first. Arthur hadn’t even looked his way, eyes still fixed in front of him, still curled up on himself. Dutch watched with a studious gaze, mind working to figure out what the next step would be. That was when the boy answered, his voice thin and quiet.

“My arm hurts.”

He smiled, something small and sad. Arthur had gotten a few bumps and bruises since being with them, hadn’t complained about a single one. He was a tough one for sure, so he must be hurting good to admit that. But seeing him here, now, Dutch would be surprised if that was all that was bothering him.

“Well, we’ll get that taken care of, soon as you’re ready to come on out.”

He waited, watching, wondering if that was enough to do the trick. Arthur didn’t move, but he at least looked his way, eyes blinking owlishly at him, lips falling into a frown. “I can’t-it hurts to move it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Dutch reassured him, noting the confession in the back of his brain. He’d have Hosea take a closer look at it when he got back to camp, and if proved to be too bad, they’d take him to a doctor. He watched as Arthur turn away, his next words almost missed. A jumble as they came spilling out.

“But I can’t-I ain’t gonna be able to-you and Hosea-the job-”

“Oh Arthur,” Dutch let out a sigh, shaking his head. His chest was hurting. _That_ was what he was so worried over? “Forget about the job; let’s just-let’s get you out of there.”

“You ain’t-mad?” he pressed, watching him still.

“Why would I be mad?”

“You a-and Hosea worked so hard getting everything ready and-”

“They’ll be other opportunities, Arthur,” he said, firmly. True, he had been upset, but that disappointment had disappeared upon finding him. Right now, all he cared about was getting to him, and making sure he was alright.

“But-”

“No buts,” Dutch cut him off harshly, done with the conversation. His words eased though after as he saw Arthur flinch. “You’ve got me worried, son.”

The confession that he actually cared seemed to shock the boy, the confusion easy to see in his young features. It sent something ill through him, the anger trying to claw its way up. Knowing that Arthur was hurt, and yet somehow he still expected to be beaten for it all. The number of times he had braced himself for a blow that would never come tore at him.

For a brief moment, Dutch wanted to do nothing more than find out _who_ had done that to him, ready and willing to return the favor. But he pushed it down, knew that that time had long passed. Right now his goal was on getting Arthur out of that hole, and getting him properly looked after.

“Come on now,” he nodded towards him, voice gentle but firm. “Let’s get you back to camp, get you fixed up. See about breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I am famished.”

Arthur had to be hungry. Seeing as he hadn’t been there last night to eat. He could see the consideration in his eyes, the subtle way he licked his lips. A minute nod as he seemed to agree.

“Can we have peaches?”

“We can have peaches,” Dutch chuckled at the suggestion. It hadn’t taken them long to learn about Arthur’s sweet tooth, the boy devouring all their canned fruit within a week of bringing him onboard. They had done well to keep some in stock, and Dutch was fully convinced the boy could live off of nothing else if it came down to it.

And this time, when he reached out, Arthur didn’t pull away. He was still tense beneath his hold, but he allowed Dutch to help him up, moving shakily to his feet. His skin was icy beneath his hold, and Dutch frowned, making quick work to shed his own jacket, draping it over the boy’s shoulders.

“There you go,” he smiled, arms working up and down his frame gently, trying to warm him up. His fingers brushed aside the locks of hair, taking a closer look at the gash on his head. No longer bleeding, but still quite nasty looking. Arthur, for the most part, let him look. Let him prod. Standing frozen to the spot, refusing to meet his gaze.

Satisfied Dutch pulled away, hands resting on his shoulders. He was battered, his skin littered with cuts, and his arm was sporting a deep bruise that indicated a break, but overall he seemed as though he’d be alright. He cleared his throat, catching his attention, waiting until Arthur met his gaze.

“Let’s get you home, then.”

He went to move, but was stopped before he got to far. Arthur stepping close, his forehead dropping down on his shoulder. Realizing just then he was crying again, soft sobs shaking his frame. Dutch let out a sigh, wrapping his arms around his torso, holding him close. Whispering gentle reassurances that everything was going to be alright.

Because everything would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to do a sappy one. I adore young Arthur and Dutch having moments together...
> 
> Let me know if you enjoyed!


End file.
